


♫ You Can't Expect A Monster Bod To Take a Gonopod ♫ -- Look It Up ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

by skullopendra



Category: Moana (2016)
Genre: Alien/Monster Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic And Inaccurate Depictions of Crab Reproductive Systems, Hard Vore Mention, Honestly This Character Is Unrestrained By Mortal Concepts Of Gender, Implied Past Relationship(s), Incomplete/Failed Oviposition, Intimacy Avoidance, Like At This Point I Don't Think I Need To Say It But, Non-Gender Specific Reader Self-Insert, Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Reader-Insert, Size Difference, Some Blood & Gore, Temporary Revocation of Consent, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8805082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullopendra/pseuds/skullopendra
Summary: Lalotai is a monster-eat-monster-eat-mortal world, and it's every ambiguously sentient abomination for itself.  There's no denying your sentience, of course, and as luck would have it you're competent to boot -- enough so that when you're unlucky enough to accidentally take refuge in the lair of Tamatoa, you manage to strike an accord and forge a tentative alliance.Which is a praiseworthy accomplishment, you think -- considering he can't understand you.[Contains Explicit Sexual Content]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally found the most important pairing in the hit Disney film Moana, and it's Giant Enemy Crab/Masked Four-Armed Sloth Monster. You know the one -- has less than ten seconds of screen time, moves like a horror movie? [Looks a little like this?](https://i.gyazo.com/12204fa5ac4fa7701e181a82ddf912e2.png) That's you, now. Congratulations.
> 
> And you're welcome. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

You’ve been to the surface world a time or two, by some trick or accident of the gods or the ocean. Up there, half the time is wasted hiding and dozing since that demigod browbeat the sun into remaining so long in the sky. During those cursed hours of daylight, there is nowhere dark enough to conceal you in the hunt, and the glow of your mask is dim and unremarkable -- not frightening at all, compared to the way the sun relentlessly shines.

You prefer Lalotai. It never sleeps, and neither do you -- not really. You hunt, and eat, and scavenge, and when you are full or injured you doze to replenish your energy. But in this state you are constantly aware of your surroundings -- not like mortals, blissfully insensate when they fall unconscious from over-exertion in Lalotai’s rigorous and unforgiving ecosystem.

And _oh_ , when mortals fall down from the world above -- you thank the stars and gorge yourself on their flesh.

Because despite your near-constant search for food, anything worth eating is still difficult to come by. Half of what lives in Lalotai is poisonous to eat, and the other half fights tooth and nail and exhausts you by the time you’ve slain it, making the whole endeavor pointless -- since eating them only replenishes the energy you lost _fighting_ them in the first place.

But mortals are much more entertaining to hunt, their meat rich and filling and almost never poisonous, and you find hunting them to be more worth your time than nearly anything else for these reasons.

Another reason to enjoy hunting humans is the things they leave behind. Sometimes they’ve brought their worldly possessions along to otherworldly Lalotai, and when you’ve satiated your hunger with their lives you paw through what remains of these: weaponry, broken seafaring vessels, trinkets, small and strange tools, and soft fruits the likes of which you have never seen grow in Lalotai, and which smell heavenly sweet -- but which also make you violently ill.

It only happened once, actually, but that was all you needed to permanently satisfy your curiosity. You don't try to eat fruit from the surface world any more.

Mortals themselves, though, are among your favorite things to eat. Their appearances are few and far between, but that’s all right. You’re flexible, accustomed to satisfying yourself with what you can find.

And some finds are just as satisfying as a mortal meal.

It is a few hours after awakening from a bloated, digestive daze that a commotion from above catches your attention.

Something has sunken into Lalotai.

You scramble out of your hiding place and scale the nearest rock formation in your quick, jerking movements. Your stomach aches in protest of the sudden movement, still digesting, but you ignore it. Your powerful quartet of arms working in tandem make quick work of the climb, and you reach the top of the rock formation just in time to see an enormous wood and bone vessel land in a heap, sending up clouds of sand where it falls.

Its make is difficult to distinguish through the clouds of sand, but once you soak in enough details, there is little else it could be: the tightly-packed platforms and ladders, the prevalence of bones, the seemingly out-of-place palm trees perched limply atop the wreck -- you recognize the handiwork of the kakamora when you see it.

Your stomach protests at the thought of eating again so soon, but a kakamora wreck is too rare a treat to pass over. You consider purging the contents of your stomach to quicken your step and make room for the more appetizing meal, but you decide against it. You can probably find a container aboard the wreckage, and you can carry your spoils in that.

Decided, you approach the shipwreck.

* * *

There are already creatures crawling over the wreckage when you arrive, but they are not as strong as you. You easily kill one of them, and you soak your claws in its blood. Its somewhat luckier brethren give you a wide berth after that.

In the wreckage you find a basket large enough to satisfy you, but small enough to carry, along with some rope you intend to use to fasten it to your back.

You scale the collapsed vessel with purpose, clambering up the splintering wood and shoving aside debris to reach the scent of blood.

When you find the ill-fated kakamora, there are too many to carry out of the wreckage. The thought of having _too much_ to eat makes your mouth water, while by the same token it makes your stomach groan in protest.

You pick up one of the kakamora and inspect it: this one has donned its war paint, though the details have been washed away by the ocean to make it an artless, colorful smear. Claw extended, you scrape lines through one of the dark pink shapes and bring it to the mouth beneath your mask, savoring the strange flavor of the fruit or flower from which the paint is made. It is bitter-sour, stale from age, and watered-down by the sea.

Curiosity satisfied, you continue your inspection of its corpse. Its body is limp and broken, bloodied in some places. You shake it once, hard, and determine by its lack of protest that it is, in fact, dead (there are plenty of creatures in Lalotai that practice such behaviors -- you can never be too sure). Its limbs are fat and bloated, with seawater and with the signs of recent death.

Convinced of its edibility, you hold its middle with your lower two hands, and with the upper pair, you set to work prying the top of the kakamora’s armor off.

It doesn’t budge. You try again, but your claws slide right off as if trying to find purchase on a sheer surface. Frustrated, you scratch a little more frantically at the seam you can _clearly see_ in its armor -- but to no avail.

You cease your efforts and quickly search the half-collapsed chamber with your eyes, listening intently and sniffing. The wreck smells faintly of salt and wood, and powerfully of blood. You hear the sounds of the sea, high above; you hear the distant cries of Lalotai’s monstrous inhabitants, and the quiet skittering of the smaller creatures you encountered earlier.

Idly, you lick their blood from your claws while it is still tacky.

Assured that for the moment there is no fast-approaching threat, you huddle against the pile of kakamora and consider the problem at hand.

And it _is_ a troubling problem: the kakamora’s guts (inarguably the best parts) are on the inside, but it seems that death or the ocean has bloated their corpses to the point that the inner pressure is holding the armor shut. And you have no way to break the shells. You must get to high ground to drop them, or work at them with a sharp tool of some kind -- and who is to say some other hungry creatures won't hear you carrying on and come looking to take the meal as their own?

There isn’t much time to decide. The noise of the crash might have frightened away the more skittish creatures, but you know others will soon come to investigate. Really, it was only good fortune that you were close enough to get here before something more threatening came by.

You suppose you could dispense with the bodies and simply take the limbs... but those aren't particularly nutritious on their own, and frankly, if that's all you get out of this excursion you might as well not have come at all.

You chitter with irritation, turning away from the tantalizing smell of the kakamora to crawl around the half-collapsed chamber in search of something to make this trip worth your while.

You find a small drum, a simplistic horned mask, and some pipes for blowing darts. You've never had a need for the like, but you throw it all in your basket anyway.

Then you see something glittering in a shaft of light shining from the sea. You've started noticing things that glitter more often, lately, despite the fact that it's suicide to carry anything bright and distracting, if it doesn't also serve a survival purpose.

 _You_ certainly have no use for it.

You eyes return to the kakamora. Their armored bodies taunt you, the bleeding paint like tears wept in mock sympathy for your plight. Their limbs are thrown in limp and broken akimbo, as if in challenge.

You deliberate for a moment more, questioning this decision as you always do.

And as always, you follow through with it despite your misgivings.

* * *

You find Tamatoa's lair by the spray of the geysers that surround it, their rhythm familiar to you after all this time, even from a distance.

And of course, the towering spires themselves are unmistakable.

You adjust the basket on your shoulders and enter at a leisurely pace. Nothing else comes this close to Tamatoa's lair, so you have nothing to fear except Tamatoa himself.

He is sleeping, as he usually is around this time of year. When the sea grows warmer and Lalotai grows more humid, the flying, many-eyed bats come to roost, seeking refuge from its colder regions; seafaring monsters grow bolder and travel farther, entangling themselves in territory disputes for their trouble; the flower of the carnivorous jade vine wilts; toxic mushrooms and glowing anemones flourish; and Tamatoa sleeps.

You sit before him and root around in the basket until you find the drum. It seems like it's in fairly good condition, although you haven't tried it yet. You always have trouble waking the giant crab, especially in the summer. You wonder if an instrument such as this might make your task easier.

Experimentally, you tap on it with one of your claws. It makes a sound that you suppose is pleasant enough, but still quiet. You try again with the flat of your palm, harder this time. The sound echoes loudly in the chamber.

Tamatoa sleeps on.

You chitter at him in exasperation, and still he sleeps. You hunch over the small drum so you can reach it with all four of your arms and begin striking it wildly, with no consideration taken for rhythm or pleasantness of sound.

And on this you focus so intently that it takes you by surprise when Tamatoa _does_ awaken.

Sand tumbles away from his mountainous, half-buried shell, and when his head emerges his voice booms with the outrage of an Ancient. “ _Who disturbs my--_ oh,” he says, squinting at you with his sand- and sleep-crusted eyes. He blinks hard, twice. “It’s just you.” With a yawn, Tamatoa lifts his legs fully from where they are submerged in the sand, shaking them off so they glitter in the gentle light of the sea. “What do you want? I was having the most pleasant dream~”

You offer up the drum.

“Oooh,” he says with interest as he takes it from you. Twists and turns it and holds it close to one eye to take a closer look. “Where did you get this?”

You root around in your basket, and you offer up one of the kakamora corpses in silent reply.

Tamatoa laughs once, harshly. “Looks like the kakamora have been bested,” he says, assuming as you did by the face paint that the creature died in battle. “Do you know by whom?”

You pause, arm lowering and mask tilting downward in thought. Come to think of it, it had been strange. There had been no enemy corpses on the wreckage, or signs of a struggle on the bodies. The fact that most of them were wearing war paint indicated that there _had_ been some kind of a conflict… but the absence of any interlocutor made it seem more like the ship had collapsed in on itself -- which, considering kakamora design principles, wouldn't be entirely surprising. Although memorably, another kakamora had been struck with one of their own blow darts. You didn't want to be subject to whatever paralytic was in the dart when you ate its corpse, so you had left it behind -- but that leaves you without a prop to demonstrate your theory to Tamatoa.

You ponder for a moment how to communicate your thoughts, but-- ah, of course.

You root around in the basket again and hold up another kakamora corpse.

“Fighting amongst themselves?” You nod, pleased that Tamatoa has understood. “Well, well, well,” he murmurs, setting the drum aside to stroke his gold-encrusted chin. “That _is_ interesting...”

Your thick coat of fur, which had been slightly raised, lays back down against your skin, and you allow yourself to relax. You can’t help your sense of relief -- sometimes it happens that Tamatoa wakes up in a bad mood, or doesn't find what you bring worth his time; then you're short a limb until you have the energy to grow another, even though he says you're “bitter and unappetizing”.

You empty the basket of kakamora and hold one up to him again, insistent.

“What? What do you want me to do with that?”

You tap the false mouth on your mask.

Tamatoa picks the drum back up and starts inspecting it again, uninterested in your request. “Maybe later,” he says, “I ate before I slept.”

You drop your arm to your side in exasperation. He is quite arrogant, if he believes you want to see him eat badly enough to ask. But this behavior is unsurprising, considering who it’s coming from. You chitter to get his attention and shake your head, lifting the kakamora and pointing at your mask again. Only this time, you gesture emphatically to _yourself_ with your two free hands.

Tamatoa snorts and rolls his eyes. “You want me to _feed_ you? _Please._ You're a grown...” --and here he falters and gestures vaguely with his claw-- “... whatever you are. Don't be pathetic.”

With a bit of a flourish (that you _certainly_ didn’t pick up from the crab himself), you one-handedly tilt the basket over to display the glittering gems, coins, and trinkets you collected from the sunken ship. They spill across the sand dramatically, and you use your two other hands to guide his gaze to the spoils -- as if he needed any guidance where things that glitter are involved.

He snatches the kakamora from you none-too-gently, and you grin beneath your mask and lean back to rest on your hands.

“It's all in the wrist,” he says, and you nod, recognizing his tone as one demanding acknowledgment (as if there is ever a time he speaks _without_ demanding acknowledgment...) -- then he crushes the kakamora with such force that the shell shatters in every direction, and its meat and viscera spill across his claw in an inedible mess of gore.

You shoot to your feet, waving all four of your arms and chittering wildly.

“Whoops,” he says, opening his claw to lick the viscera clean away. “I guess I don't know my own strength. Oh, calm down, would you?” He prods at your stomach with the claw not coated in gore, sending you tumbling to the ground hissing and spitting. “I've just woken up, after all. You can't expect a perfect performance immediately -- although it's flattering that you do, I suppose.”

You watch his eyes as he takes the next one from the pile. The pressure he exerts this time is much more controlled, and the coconut cracks on a jagged edge. You tense your muscles, waiting for him to betray you and eat it himself -- but he offers it to you.

You accept it with anticipation, chittering happily as you break it the rest of the way open to encounter the kakamora’s aromatic corpse. You lift up your mask and take a moment to inhale the scent of rich, fresh meat, only slightly salted with the sea. It is not spoiled with age, nor does it smell bitter with poison. A rare treat, indeed.

You waste no time devouring it, huffing and moaning with pleasure at the hearty meal of flesh and organ and muscle.

Blood clings to the inside of its husk, and you lick this away greedily, and then from your claws as well, savoring the taste on your tongue and sucking the last of it from your teeth.

It is customary for Tamatoa to begin talking as soon as you enter his presence, and not to stop until you leave (or rather, he tends not to _let_ you leave until he is _done_ talking...), so the silence in the cavern is palpable. Your mask is askew so that you can’t see through the holes, but you’re not done eating either, so you push it up higher to gauge his expression. He is giving you a considering look, as if he is contemplating a course of action involving you.

Your muscles seize in anticipation. You know from experience that he is much, much quicker than he looks, so if he gets it in his mind that he wants to snap you up in his claws, you’ll need to be ready. Tentative, you make a rasping sound -- a question.

Tamatoa blinks, returning to himself. “Oh -- no, don’t worry. I’m not interested in spoiling my palate with the likes of you after eating such a delicacy.” Tamatoa helps himself to another of the kakamora, which you allow. There’s hardly a good reason to stop him. He tosses the entire thing into his mouth, coconut shell and all intact, and you wince, feeling sympathy pangs deep in your gums. But he doesn’t crunch down on it like you expect. He certainly _could_ , with teeth like his -- but instead his face screws up and he slurps on his food. Wet cracking and splitting noises accompany the messy eating sounds.

“Mm, _appétissant,_ ” he says before swallowing. You pay this no mind -- every once in a while a hapless mortal of distant and unfamiliar clothes and speech stumbles into Lalotai, and as per your informal agreement, you lure them to Tamatoa. As you recall, he had eaten one who spoke with such tonality and sibilants a few months ago, and the likeness of their language had peppered his speech ever since.

Tamatoa smacks his lips loudly after his utterance, and then he spits the coconut back out. It lands within arm’s reach, and you quickly grab it, twisting the shell in your hands with curiosity. The smear of paint is gone, no doubt sluiced away when Tamatoa sucked on it. You peer up into one of its eyeholes, and with the small shafts of light refracting from the roof of Tamatoa’s lair, you see that it is empty.

Tamatoa has sucked it nearly dry.

The thought sends an unexpected thrill through you. And you’re a little envious -- if you had such a skill, you wouldn’t need to come bother him to crack open kakamora shells for you to eat. You release an involuntary chittering sound in appreciation of his handiwork.

“You like that, do you?” Tamatoa asks, fishing for compliments.

You nod enthusiastically, knowing it will stroke his ego. You then pick up another kakamora and offer it up to him tentatively, pointing at yourself again. You may want him to think you’re impressed -- but you _don’t_ want him to eat all the kakamora you went to the trouble of scavenging, just because he thinks you want to see him do tongue tricks with his food.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he grumbles as he takes it, though you know this is because he is the greedy one, and he would rather keep all the food for himself.

In truth, you’re not particularly hungry. But you are concerned that if you don’t eat as much as you can now, Tamatoa will eat all of the kakamora you brought himself, and your efforts will have been for basically nothing. He is bigger and stronger than you, so you can already surmise that he will decide that he deserves a larger portion -- despite his virtually infinite supply of fish, which you wouldn’t be able to partake of even if he _were_ the sort to share.

This is because you can’t eat fish in the quantities that Tamatoa does. You need to feast on dark, red, bleeding meat -- you can’t ensconce yourself in a palace of shells and just wait for food to fall into your mouth like he does.

You accept the broken-open shell he offers you with a guilelessly appreciative hiss. You imagine that if you were capable of giving voice to any of these thoughts, Tamatoa would not tolerate you as much as he does -- so perhaps it is for the best that you lack the capacity for speech as he understands it.

As much as you can, you gorge yourself on the kakamora, but your stomach protests before you can finish it. The urge to rub your stomach and ease digestion is a powerful one, but you don’t want Tamatoa to see -- and he is being unusually keen-eyed just now.

Despite your efforts to be discreet, he still notices when you slow down. “Not as hungry as you thought? Should I finish that for you~?”

Instinctively, you pull the broken shell away from him and to your side, turning your shoulder toward him and growling at the implicit threat to your food source. Surprisingly, he doesn’t take offense, and he doesn’t reach for your food; he only grins in an infuriatingly knowing way.

Satisfied your food source is not in danger, you return your attention to it. But he’s right -- the sight of it makes your stomach turn. You can’t eat any more.

Mournfully, you turn back toward him and offer the half-eaten meal to do with as he will.

Tamatoa surprises you, though, when he takes it and simply sets it aside. “How about we do something else for you to work off all that energy, and then you can eat more...?”

The thought gives you pause.

It is such a _Tamatoa_ thing to think and say, to be so lousy with food that one wonders how they can make themselves eat more. It's decadent. You _wish_ you had the privilege to consider such things. Food is difficult enough to come by as it is!

... Although you've obviously come into some excess, as it happens. You curse your foolishness -- you have no one to blame but yourself for this quandary. Before becoming acquainted with Tamatoa, you would never have been so self-assured in scavenging in excess, confident you would have somewhere to store anything you couldn't eat immediately.

You're unconvinced Tamatoa won't eat the kakamora if you don't -- which is a shame, because while eating may just be a way to change meat into fuel, kakamora are one of the few things you actually _enjoy_ eating. Maybe his decadence and excess is rubbing off on you, if you're comfortable enough with your food security to be developing preferences.

And now you are genuinely considering taking him up on his thinly veiled sexual proposition -- in order to make room in your energy reserves for _more_ food.

Tamatoa is watching you patiently, but his usual smug grin is positively salacious.

And _that_ sends a pulse of heat through you that ultimately makes the decision for you. You have no worldly idea how he expects this to work, but you nod anyway.

And that is how you end up in the very strange position of sitting atop Tamatoa’s vulnerable, exposed abdomen, skating your claws across the segments between his armor plates in search of his sex in the darkened cavern.

“Lower,” he drawls, then sighs, and you feel something give in the plates, and two large, bioluminescent appendages curl up eagerly into your grasp. They are blue-green and soft and wet, and with a lot of maneuverability and give when you squeeze experimentally.

They are also as thick as your arm, and taller than you are.

You lean around them to peer at Tamatoa, with what you _dearly_ hope he understands is incredulity.

He chuckles low and deep, and that sends a thrill straight through your spine -- damn his bioluminescent facial markings hitting all of your mating cues. “You don’t need to take the whole thing, babe. Just do your best~”

You huff and size up the organ again. It _does_ seem flexible, and its movements seem mostly involuntary just by the way it curls around your hands and arms. That alone gives you comfort. You’re not sure you’d want anything quite this large entering you so intimately, if its actions were backed only by the conscious thought of someone as selfish as Tamatoa.

You press down on the appendages to lay them flat on Tamatoa’s abdomen, pointing toward his face. They twist and writhe with interest, but they do not thrash out of your grip, so you suppose you aren’t hurting them. And of course, Tamatoa would have no reservations speaking up if you were hurting him. You splay your legs and press your own sex to the wide base of Tamatoa’s. It is unpleasantly cool, and you shiver, but you expect your temperatures will even out as you proceed. It’s hardly a deterrent, when intimacy in any other circumstance is so difficult to find.

You slide up Tamatoa’s twin bioluminescent organs rhythmically, acclimating your mind and your body to the sensation. Tamatoa hums and laughs softly, a little breathlessly -- you take this to be approval.

When you reach the end, his appendages are twisting impatiently, and your own sex is suitably lubricated with his and your own bodily fluids. You lay down on your stomach, despite the way it still protests at the slightest of pressures (bloated as it is with food), and you shift your hips back down toward Tamatoa’s writhing appendages.

As you thought, they seem to move mostly by instinct. They twist around your entrance, and slip inside only by happy accident of seeking your body’s warmth. The pressure you feel is a pleasant one, and more than manageable despite the fact that there are _two_ , considering the preparation you gave yourself. You croon and sigh, all four of your clawed hands splaying out and grasping aimlessly at Tamatoa’s abdomen in appreciation.

“Oh,” Tamatoa says from above with a gusty sigh. “That’s the stuff, babe~”

His body shifts, and you dig your claws in to keep your footing, but there’s little purchase to be found on the plates of his abdomen. The angle of his abdomen increases, and you slide down on your own weight. The appendages push farther into the corkscrew insides of your sex, and _you see him_ , the slimy, grinning sneak -- how _dare_ he ask you to participate in this most intimate of things, and then think that he, the larger and stronger one, can choose to disrespect the modicum of trust you’ve placed in him?

Your body reacts to your sense of betrayal immediately, and your inner musculature clamps down on Tamatoa like a vice. You take pleasure in the agony of his expression as he falls back down onto his back -- where he _belongs_. It is only by the good grace of his appendages’ flexibility that they are unscathed by your reaction, slipping out and curling around themselves defensively.

Tamatoa lays a claw over his face. “By Ta’aroa,” he groans.

You shriek and chitter at him and pound his abdomen with your fists. _How dare!_

“Sorry, sorry,” Tamatoa croons. “Accident, you know.”

You chitter at him in disbelief.

“Well,” he says, “you’ve got me on my back, here. So if you want to leave, I can hardly stop you.”

This is true enough, you suppose. The thought calms you.

“But if you want to take charge, set the pace...” Tamatoa does something like a shrug. It’s awkward, from his current position, and he grins in what he must suppose is a charming way. “Then I’m on board, babe~”

... Curse him, but it _is_ a charming smile. For all that he resembles a human _not at all,_ Tamatoa has strangely human mannerisms such as that. You know he means it to appear friendly, to disarm you -- but most residents of Lalotai show their teeth to demonstrate that they’re a threat, and the result in the part of your mind that deals with instinct is a thrill of fear, along with a thread of arousal helped along by the enticing way his face glows.

The muscles within you begin to unclench, though it’ll be a few minutes more before they are ready to accommodate another intrusion.

With a gust of air much like the plaintive, self-pitying sighs Tamatoa occasionally indulges in, you clamber around his sex to administer your tender attentions.

“ _Yesss..._ ” Tamatoa sighs, letting his head fall back against the curved wall of the cavern, ostensibly entrusting his pleasure to your care. “I’ve gotta tell you, babe, being me is _great_ \-- but living in the lap of luxury until you’re too large to leave?” he says conversationally. “Makes for _dreadfully_ dull mating seasons.”

With some amusement, you observe that all his limbs go lax, as if until that moment they had been tensed and anxious in case you decided to continue your assault. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea, considering the severity of the offense he had just committed -- but your culture is long dead, and you suppose a giant crab can’t be expected to understand the nuance and cultural mores of a monstrous people he’s never even heard of.

Thinking of it with that frame of reference heightens your awareness that this encounter is taking place on your own terms. Whether or not you choose to take your due recompense, or take revenge, or take your leave is entirely between you and Tamatoa.

Whether you choose to leave or stay, no one else will know. And if you want to forgive his transgression for the selfish reason of seeking your own pleasure, there is no higher authority to cast judgment upon you. Only the unconcerned ocean, shifting quietly far above.

His twin appendages are writhing in distress, but a few gentle passes turns them back to putty in your hands. Their flexibility gives you an idea, and you arrange them into a loose, uncooperative spiral beneath you, then guide just one of them back to your sex.

You derive further amusement from how tentative it is this time, in contrast to its eagerness from before. It presses curiously at each turn in the corkscrew of your inner passage, then pauses, as if it is concerned it has pressed too far. You look up at Tamatoa’s face in the dark. One claw is draped over his face again, and he is biting his lip in an expression of great restraint. It is a gratifying sight. Control is firmly in your grasp again, and you are more than comfortable moving things along.

You seize the appendage firmly, to which it twitches in alarm -- and you guide it deeper inside you. It writhes within you and against the inner walls of your sex, and you flex your pelvic muscles gently. Your lungs rattle in amusement as Tamatoa drops his claw to stare at you, open-mouthed and heaving. His determination not to move in light of your previous outburst is admirable, you think. You croon in coy question, guiding the appendage deeper.

His head falls back against the curved wall of the cavern as he groans. “The inside of you,” he breathes, sounding delirious with realization, “it’s like-- a shell.”

Your lungs rattle in amusement again. If you could speak as he does, you would ask him what he preferred -- a shiny shell, or being inside of you? You expect his struggle to answer would be even more amusing than his current efforts to control himself.

As his appendage gets deeper, two things happen. One, it gradually widens, placing pressure on the powerful inner muscles of your sex and stretching you to your limits. Two, the increased pressure draws your attention invariably to your stomach, which is full to bursting with all you've eaten. You press a hand to it, and even that barest of pressures makes you feel on the verge of sickness.

“All right?” Tamatoa asks, panting.

You’d be amused that you’ve cowed the enormous crab into asking after your well-being, but you’re too busy taking the question into genuine consideration. Eventually you nod, if a bit uncertainly. You’re genuinely not sure if the limitation you’ve reached is sexual or digestive in nature.

“Don’t push yourself, babe,” Tamatoa insists, to your appreciation and surprise. “I can take it from here.” Most of him doesn’t even fit inside of you -- but he’s clearly capable of making do, since he wraps the forgotten and neglected twin appendage around the one within you, making up the difference in what your body cannot take.

It’s a novel sexual experience, to be sure. You haven’t had many, but what experience you do have doesn’t help you in establishing a rhythm, or understanding how to orient yourself -- not when so much of his sex is simply writhing beneath you.

Once again, you inch forward to lay yourself down on his abdomen -- though you hold yourself up on your knees and elbows, not wanting to put any more pressure on your stomach. It wouldn’t do to ruin the mood by becoming ill.

Tamatoa’s appendage inches a little farther inside you, increasing the pressure, and at this angle the additional length is not intolerable. You allow it, then, and roll your pelvis in time with the arrhythmic undulations of his appendages.

“ _Oh_ , babe,” Tamatoa purrs like a geyser when you give him that little bit of extra depth, and you can’t help but feel your body fill with heat. You know perfectly well that Tamatoa calls everything ‘babe’. He calls humans ‘babe’. He calls demigods ‘babe’. He’ll call _fish_ ‘babe’ if the occasion warrants, and yes, he calls you babe whenever you come to call, too. But intimacy such as this is hard to come by, and you won’t let your rationale take this small pleasure from you. You croon and keen helplessly, your knees shaking where they dig into his abdomen.

Tamatoa's sex organ retreats from within you then, and you almost voice your displeasure at the sudden absence, until in your daze you somehow recall that there tends to be a sort of push and pull in these situations -- it's not _all_ testing your limits and filling yourself until you feel like throwing up.

Your insides quake at the absence, and you very nearly _do_ cry out with need -- but then Tamatoa slides the prehensile organ right back home inside you, returning the sensation of pressure and overwhelming fullness.

You let your shoulders fall forward, your mask thunking against his abdomen. Your breath is hot against it, filling your senses with the smell of the ancient woodgrain.

The gradually quickening rhythm is supremely satisfying, and what's more, Tamatoa never presses deeper than it was established your initial limit lies -- he must have marked it by wrapping the other half of his sex organ around the first, or something.

Logistics and Tamatoa's newfound consideration for others aside, the sensation is exquisite.

And it seems you are not the only one so affected by the experience.

The spiral shape of your inner passage which Tamatoa praised earlier is apparently to his liking: the noises he makes are something you expect he would describe as “undignified” or “pathetic” at any other time, and his legs twitch and jerk more noticeably with each thrust. It is easy to imagine such a response is natural -- if he had a sexual partner more suited to his size, he would simply be embracing them. Yet from your vantage point, it seems more like he is simply over-sensitive to sexual pleasure.

And you suppose that can't be ruled out, either. He's been larger than any of the entrances to his lair as long as you've known him, and this _is_ what he attributed his difficulties in mating season to. Although even if he _could_ leave his home without destroying it, you've never seen a decapod as large as him. Probably there is no one large enough to suit Tamatoa as a mate.

... Although you can't disregard the fact that he is mating with _you_ at the moment. Size limitations probably aren't a concern of his. And now that you think of it, he seems to have a lot of practice -- he hasn't gored you with his sex organ yet, after all, so he must have learned boundaries from _someone_. It's obvious that they don't come to him naturally.

Tamatoa’s pace becomes faster and more punishing, but the progression is gradual -- generously so. You feel your internal peak approaching, and you squirm restlessly, eager to reach it. You can feel your thick fur rippling in time with the shivers that shoot down your spine. Your chittering climbs higher in pitch, and involuntarily you begin subvocalizing, so helpless are you in the face of your own pleasure. It’s almost embarrassing -- anything that deep in your chest that creates sound has gone unused for so long that you almost forgot how to use it. Such nuance of communication hasn’t been necessary for as long as you can remember.

There is no one alive who would understand if you bothered.

Sullen thoughts aside, the content of your subvocalizations come very close to alarming you: they speak of _obscene_ intent, and encouragement of the same, and shamelessly open affection. You spare a brief and delirious thought, thanking the stars that Tamatoa has no way of understanding you.

For his own part, Tamatoa seems close as well. He is having trouble keeping his abdomen level, with his gentle rocking -- only this time you are not of a mind to reprimand him for it, since you suspect no ill-intent. “Oh, _babe_ ,” he says when you fall silent, too overwhelmed by sensation for speech, “talk dirty to me~”

Your lungs rattle on a surprised laugh, and more embarrassing than all you have said in your forgotten tongue, it is that _this_ \-- Tamatoa behaving foolishly as he always does, saying foolish things and pretending to understand you -- is what takes you from the heights of pleasure over the threshold on a tidal wave of ecstasy.

Tamatoa is deep inside you when it happens, and through the haze of your senses dulling you imagine that you can _feel_ him convulsing with pleasure beneath you as your internal muscles spasm with your release. As consciousness fails you, you feel _something_ bear down on the tight entrance to your sex -- but before you can wonder what it is, you suddenly are incapable of wondering anything at all.

* * *

 

“Babe, wake up. _Babe--_ ”

There is a vocalization of exertion, and the ground shifts beneath you. No, not the ground -- Tamatoa. You slowly become aware of your surroundings, and you awaken feeling invigorated. Your claws flex against Tamatoa’s abdomen, twitching into wakefulness.

Tamatoa responds to your movement immediately. “Oh, _thank Ta’aroa_ \-- hey, babe?” Tamatoa says, sounding strained. His voice is unusually high-pitched. It strikes you as anxious and high-strung, and you find this strange, since he seemed to be enjoying himself earlier…

Your senses return to you slowly, and the source of his distress becomes clear -- the internal muscles of your sex have clamped down on Tamatoa’s prehensile organ, preventing him from extricating himself from your body. Maybe even from achieving release. You would feel sympathy for his plight, except that your body is working precisely as intended: this aspect of your reproductive system is not a conventional one, but one that you have painstakingly developed in the hopes of surviving a bit longer in Lalotai.

Intimacy, especially of the sexual kind, requires a kind of trust that you simply cannot afford to extend; therefore you have cultivated a response to sexual release which gives you a slightly higher chance of surviving. You have seen monsters in Lalotai that eat their mates post-, or even mid-coitus -- and in no context is such a concern more warranted than with Tamatoa. You may have been able to control him in the throes of pleasure, but you have no assurance that he would not have eaten you while you slept off the afterglow. Hence, the vice-like grip your sex has on his, which would stop any attempts to eat you while you recovered from the ordeal.

You shift your hips experimentally, and Tamatoa hisses. “Got it in one, well done,” he says through gritted teeth. “I ah, don’t suppose you could release me from your -- really, lovely, thanks for having me, but -- cruel and unusual sex prison?”

Your lungs rattle with amusement, but the movement makes you aware of something else that gives you pause. There is something else there, at the place where your bodies are joined. Gathering yourself carefully to your hands and knees (amid Tamatoa’s whimpers and hisses), you reach back to touch whatever is placing such overbearing pressure on your entrance.

Tamatoa shouts in pain. “Agh! Yes, I _know_ . You don’t want any eggs. No eggs for you. _Obviously,_ ” he says. Mercifully you retract your hand, and when you turn your face to see what you had touched, the sight _almost_ makes you reconsider withholding your sympathy: The thicker parts of the semi-translucent, blue-green sex organ are visibly distended with eggs. You wince. It is unlikely they are meant to _stay_ there, and it is your internal musculature that is preventing them from moving.

You face Tamatoa and chitter something of an apology, but he seems to interpret it as a question or accusation. “And before you ask, I wasn’t trying to _impregnate_ you. I tried to pull out, but your _monstrously_ powerful innards clamped down on me like a _vice_ before I could.” He snaps his claw together in mimicry of the brutality he must feel you’ve inflicted upon him. “I’ve been stuck here for _fifteen minutes._ ”

His antics are amusing, but you feel there’s no need to extend his suffering any longer.

Tamatoa continues, “So if it’s not _too_ much trouble, I don’t s’pose you could--” Without preamble you loosen the muscles of your passage and guide his appendage out and away from you. He hisses and moans in pain. “ _Oh_ , no, that is _not_ a good feeling,” he groans.

You can’t imagine it is, but luckily for him it is over quickly: the end of his appendage that was buried inside you looks angry and dark and swollen when it emerges (and the length of the discoloration serves to provide a visual of just how _deeply_ he was able to penetrate you, despite your incompatible anatomies). The eggs press forth immediately, stretching the appendage so quickly that you can’t help but imagine the pain Tamatoa is in -- of course, you don’t need to imagine while he is so freely vocalizing it. The eggs burst forth in a flood, tumbling in every direction across Tamatoa’s abdomen. His appendage writhes wildly in every direction as it expels the eggs, like a frantic eel dying of suffocation.

Deciding an attempt at comfort would do more harm than good, you instead pick up one of the eggs as it rolls toward you and inspect it.

It is mostly round, if a bit deformed from being stuck in Tamatoa’s gonopod with all the other ones for so long, and it is a translucent off-white. Inside is a misty, swirling fluid, but there is no fetal crab within -- you expect it is in want of fertilization and incubation. You press into it gently with your palms, gauging the give and the texture. Tentatively, you lift up your mask and press your tongue against it.

Salty.

You smack your lips, contemplating.

“Eugh, don’t _eat_ it,” Tamatoa sighs. “That's nasty.” The tone he uses is reminiscent of the usual castigations he offers in anger -- only as if they were dialed down a hundred degrees by exhaustion and exasperation.

You croon coyly, staring at Tamatoa from the deep shadows of your mask. Drawing the egg closer to your face, you inhale deeply of its scent. Still mostly salty, although this time you recognize Tamatoa’s scent as well. You couldn’t place the scent categorically if you wanted to -- it’s just... what Tamatoa smells like. Still keeping eye contact (though whether he can even _see_ your eyes in the dark is uncertain), you let your tongue loll out of your mouth at its full length, and _slowly_ lick the egg.

Tamatoa “tsk”s and beckons you closer lazily with his claw. “C’mere.”

You’re already as close as you can be, considering you’re sitting on him -- but his mellowed-out behavior is intriguing you, so you generously choose to interpret the request as you expect he wants you to. Cradling the egg in your lower two arms, you use your legs and upper arms to bound up the length of his abdomen. Your body is filled with pent-up energy from your sexual release, so you’re expecting a jibe about being overeager -- but it never comes.

You skid to a stop, and you approach more slowly when his head is close enough that you could throw the egg in his mouth, if you wanted to. You chitter in cautious question.

“No, I’m not mad any more you strange, lovely thing,” he murmurs. His right claw moves from its place hanging limply at his side -- and the movement is so deliberately slow it gives you the impression that he is either very, _very_ tired, or he else he is doing it for your benefit so as not to startle you. Even more curious at _this_ behavior, you only watch -- but then his claw is _behind_ you, pushing you even closer toward his face. It is frighteningly similar to the time he ate your arm, and you suddenly remember being afraid that that wasn’t _all_ he was going to eat.

You trill and chitter in distress, pressing your back against his claw and kicking your legs out to skitter against his abdomen as he draws you closer to his mouth.

“Hush, shh-shh-shh-- I just want to see you properly. Now let me just...”

Tamatoa is suddenly shifting beneath you, sliding against the cavern wall to push himself upright, and you are now forced to lean on the claw you had been resisting for balance and support.

“There,” he sighs, rolling his neck as if his previous position had put a strain on it. “Well… you’re a funny little thing, aren’t you? Stronger than you look~”

Strangely, you can’t detect anything in his tone but naked appreciation. You relax marginally against his claw, on which you’re now basically sitting, and chitter softly in reply. You rotate the unfertilized egg idly in your hand, anxious.

“Quite a bit to say, too, haven't you?” Tamatoa says. He’s sporting a lazy grins that speaks to a contentedness you rarely see, except when you bring him a particularly tasty human.

But his words give you pause. He’s never given any indication that he believes the sounds you make to be something other than meaningless noise. He sometimes facetiously pretends you’re carrying the other half of a conversation so that he can have an excuse to talk about what he wants, or acts as if you’ve “said” something you haven’t -- sort of like someone with a stupid pet might entertain themselves if they only had the pet for company. Although now that you think of it, Tamatoa has been quicker on the uptake lately when it comes to interpreting your attempts at communication. You had attributed it to growing familiarity, but…

“Tell me, _mon poisson,_ ” he says, another utterance he must have learned by eating… _by eating…_ “Did you mean all those sweet things you said _during_ , or was that just a sort of... pleasure-induced word vomit?”

Your hair stands on end.

He heard _everything?_

Panicked, you make a break for it, but he must have recovered from his slowness from before, or else it was all a ruse -- because Tamatoa quickly snaps you up in his claw, cutting off your escape and sealing your fate. You drop the egg in your haste, and it tumbles down his abdomen.

Tamatoa laughs, low and lazy and pleased. “And where do you think you’re going, hm…?” he asks.

Well, obviously nowhere _now_ , you think irately. All the same, you thrash in his grip, scratching and chittering and hissing, your subvocals roaring betrayal and terror and hate. Hate, hate, _hate!_

“Ouch, that’s cold, babe,” he says with a pout, touching his other claw to his chest as if wounded. “And I thought we were getting along so _well…”_

You growl uncooperatively. You’re not exactly convinced that he doesn’t plan to eat you.

Tamatoa sighs. “I’m _sorry_ about the eggs, all right? Didn’t know we were going to get stuck, did I?”

No, you suppose he didn’t. You shrink into his grip, hunching your shoulders, because you remember you were a little sorry about that yourself.

“I’m not sure if you knew, but it’s mating season for me, so eggs are just going to happen.”

You chitter apologetically and shrink further into the space between his claws. You hadn’t known… but that explains why he sleeps so many months out of the year, if he can’t get out of his lair to mate. It also explains why he was willing to be intimate with _you_ , a creature not only unsuited to him physically, but with whose physical limitations he is unfamiliar with.

“Oh, don’t be so sure -- I’d say you suit me just fine,” he says sultrily, and your body flushes with heat -- you can’t sink any further into his grip, but you would if you could. You’re surprised by the amount of nuance he’s able to derive from your subvocals, now that he isn’t concealing how much he understands.

And that’s another thing! When did he start understanding you?!

Tamatoa gives you one of his signature smug looks. “I ate one of your arms, remember?”

The suggestion that you could _forget_ such an awful experience is, frankly, offensive. Confidence renewing in increments, you smack his claw with your palm.

Tamatoa tsks in disapproval, but he doesn't retaliate with force. “I _know_ , but it got better!”

You let him know _exactly_ what you think about _that._

“Well, I _offered_ to let you stay until it healed, but you weren't interested, were you?” Tamatoa reminds you. He has the gall to act _petulant_ about you rejecting his invitation -- which is ridiculous. Any sensible monster would have rejected it.

And any monster with a sense of self-preservation wouldn't have come back, either. You cross all four of your arms and murmur into them. You suppose your acquaintanceship with Tamatoa hasn't made sense for a while, but you kept it up anyway because of a misplaced sense of companionship. Just because he could _talk_ didn't mean he was _nice_ or _healthy to be around_.

“Have I not been nice? ... Today,” he amends at your incredulous silence.

In all honesty, ‘nice’ is probably an understatement for the way he behaved. Today, anyway.

And regrettably, your subvocals go ahead and express that with true, blue, mortifying honesty, so what he _hears_ is something like, ‘yesyesyes nice and warm and pleasure-affection and excitement-pleasure and intimacy and soft and warm, yes, big and beautiful and mine’.

Tamatoa blinks.

You chitter and twist in his grip, uncomfortable with being so exposed. Your peoples’ subvocalizations weren't often understood by outsiders, so Tamatoa having _preternatural knowledge_ of every utterance just because he consumed your flesh (rude! hurt you!) is supremely disorienting. You thought Tamatoa made you feel vulnerable when he eyed you up like his next meal -- but nothing compares to this.

“If you liked it so much,” Tamatoa says, evidently having recovered from the blunt force trauma of your unexpectedly honest evaluation, “then we should do it again sometime~”

You rumble uncertainly.

Tamatoa shrugs, as if he has no preference for your answer. “You think on it, then,” he says with finality, and advises you to “hang on” as he returns to his feet--

Then he places you gently on the ground.

You rear back on your haunches defensively, taking in your immediate surroundings, but -- it's just the unremarkable sandy center of Tamatoa's treasure-strewn lair. You've been here so many times that just being back on solid ground is enough to put you at ease.

You suppose that's more telling than any of your misgivings, which past experience says you were probably just going to ignore anyway.

“Now,” Tamatoa says, “did you work up an appetite like you wanted?”

Suddenly you remember the whole silly reason you had justified considering his offer in the first place.

You place a hand on your stomach, and it rumbles softly. You could eat.

You spend a little while sharing kakamora corpses with Tamatoa, as he regales you with some actually interesting anecdotes on his personal acquaintanceship with the demigod Maui. As he comes to the end of his second tale of their strange partnership, it becomes apparent that there are an odd number of kakamora. You hadn't bothered counting them evenly, since you expected Tamatoa would take more anyway, and you thought that if you were _very_ lucky he might even be satisfied knowing that he had at least eaten one more than you.

So when Tamatoa picks the last one up, you have already forsaken its delicious, savory contents and accepted that you cannot have them. You are, in fact, rubbing your stomach and contemplating where you might be able to hunt down a few more morsels to fill yourself up and sink into a doze properly bloated -- when Tamatoa offers you half a coconut shell filled to the brim with gore.

You share the last kakamora, and Tamatoa acts like it isn't a big deal -- but those two things are more telling than any of his smug looks or persistent jokes about eating you.

Not as telling, though, as how bashful he becomes in response to your surprised and overjoyed subvocalizations, or the way he invites you to curl up in the crook of his neck to doze when you're done eating.

The last telling thing would be how readily you accept the offer, and how soundly you sleep thereafter.

(But then, that would be telling.)

**Author's Note:**

> 11Dec Edit:["Don't eat that, you nasty"](http://68.media.tumblr.com/1ef5f8f9c1d51db5e27dd1e8c5bb0024/tumblr_inline_oi1ord0WzP1qgwxdf_250.png)  
> 31Dec Edit: [Everyone Shut The Fuck Up Because A Buddy Of Mine Just Drew Steamy Gonopod Sex](http://colorofdesires.tumblr.com/post/155222952524/anyway-uh-tomatotoas-fic-pretty-great)
> 
> Come follow for more Soft Monster Fucking @ [tomatotoa](http://tomatotoa.tumblr.com)


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